The Prairie Wife
I slept like a log. Once I fell asleep, I forgot about the hard ground,
and the smell of the horse-blankets, and the fact that I'd lost my poor
Dinky-Dunk's team. When I woke up it was the first gray of dawn. Two men
were standing side by side, looking at me under the wagon. One was
Percy, and the other was Dinky-Dunk himself.
He'd got home by three o'clock in the morning, by hurrying, for he was
nervous about me being alone. But he found the house empty, the team
standing beside the corral, and me missing. Naturally, it wasn't a very
happy situation. Poor Dinky-Dunk hit the trail at once, and had been
riding all night looking for his lost wife. Then he made for Percy's,
woke him up, and discovered her placidly snoring under a wagon-box. He
didn't even smile at this. He was very tired and very silent. I thought,
for a moment, that I saw distrust on Dinky-Dunk's face, for the first
time. But he has said nothing. I hated to see him go out to work, when
we got home, but he refused to take a nap at noon, as I wanted him to.
So to-night, when he came in for his supper, I had the birthday cake
duly decked and the presents all out.
But his enthusiasm was forced, and all during the meal he showed a
tendency to be absent-minded. I had no explanations to make, so I made
none. But I noticed that he put on his old slippers. I thought he had
done it deliberately.
"You don't seem to mellow with age," I announced, with my eyebrows up.
He flushed at that, quite plainly. Then he reached over and took hold of
my hand. But he did it only with an effort, and after some tremendous
inward struggle which was not altogether flattering to me.
"Please take your hand away so I can reach the dish-towel," I told him.
And the hand went away like a shot. After I'd finished my work I got out
my George Meredith and read _Modern Love_. Dinky-Dunk did not come to
bed until late. I was awake when he came, but I didn't let him know it.
_Sunday the Twenty-ninth_
I haven't felt much like writing this last week. I scarcely know why. I
think it's because Dinky-Dunk is on his dignity. He's getting thin, by
the way. His cheek-bones show and his Adam's apple sticks out. He's
worried about his land payments, and I tell him he'd be happier with a
half-section. But Dinky-Dunk wants wealth. And I can't help him much.
I'm afraid I'm an encumbrance. And the stars make me lonely, and the
prairie wind sometimes gives me the willies! And winter is coming.
I'm afraid I'm out of my setting, as badly out of it as Percival Benson
is. It wouldn't be so bad, I suppose, if I'd never seen such lovely
corners of the world, before coming out here to be a dot on the
wilderness. If I'd never had that heavenly summer at Fiesole, and those
months with you at Corfu, and that winter in Rome with poor dear dead
Katrinka! Sometimes I think of the nights we used to look out over
Paris, from the roof above 'Tite Daneau's studio. And sometimes I think
of the Pincio, with the band playing, and the carriages flashing, and
the officers in uniform, and the milky white statues among the trees,
and the golden mists of the late afternoon over the Immortal City. And I
tell myself that it was all a dream. And then I feel that _I_ am all a
dream, and the prairie is a dream, and Paddy and Olie and Dinky-Dunk and
all this new life is nothing more than a dream. Oh, Matilda Anne, I've
been homesick this week, so unhappy and homesick for something--for
something, and I don't even know what it is!
_Monday the Seventh_
Glory be! Winter's here with a double-edged saber wind out of the north
and snow on the ground. It gives a zip to things. It makes our snug
little shack seem as cozy as a ship's cabin. And I've got a
jumper-sleigh, and with my coon-skin coat and gauntlets and wedge-cap I
can be as warm as toast in any wind. And there's so much to do. And I'm
not going to be a piker. This is the land where folks make good or go
loco. You've only got yourself to depend on, and yourself to blame, if
things go wrong. And I'm going to make them go right. There's no use
wailing out here in the West. A line or two of Laurence Hope's has been
running all day through my head:
"These are my people, and this my land;
I hear the pulse of her secret soul.
This is the life that I understand,
Savage and simple, and sane and whole."
_Friday the Eleventh_
Dinky-dunk came home with an Indian girl to-day, a young half-breed about
sixteen years old. She's to be both companion and parlor-maid, for
Dinky-Dunk has to hurry off to British Columbia, to try to sell his
timber-rights there to meet his land payments. He's off to-morrow. It
makes me feel wretched, but I'm consuming my own smoke, for I don't want
him to think me an encumbrance. My Indian girl speaks a little English.
She also eats sugar by the handful, whenever she can steal it. I asked
her what her name was and she told me "Queenie MacKenzie." That name
almost took my breath away. How that untutored Northwest aborigine ever
took unto herself this Broadway chorus-girl name, Heaven only knows! But
I have my suspicions of Queenie. She has certain exploratory movements
which convince me she is verminous. She sleeps in the annex, I'm happy
to say.
At dinner to-night when I was teaching Dinky-Dunk how to make a rabbit
out of his table-napkin and a sea-sick passenger out of the last of his
oranges, he explained that he might not get back in time for Christmas,
and asked if I'd mind. I knew his trip was important, so I kept a stiff
upper lip and said of course I wouldn't mind. But the thought of a
Christmas alone chilled my heart. I tried to be jolly, and gave my
repertory on the mouth-organ, which promptly stopped all activities on
the part of the round-eyed Queenie MacKenzie. But all that foolery was
as forced as the frivolity of the French Revolution Conciergerie where
the merry diners couldn't quite forget they were going to lose their
heads in the morning!
_Sunday the Thirteenth_
Not only is Duncan gone, but Queenie has also quite unceremoniously
taken her departure. It arose from the fact that I requested her to take
a bath. The only disappointed member of the family is poor old Olie, who
was actually making sheep's eyes at that verminous little baggage.
Imagination falters at what he might have done with a dollar's worth of
brown sugar. When Queenie went, I find, my mouth-organ went with her.
I'd like to ling chih that Indian girl!
_Wednesday the Sixteenth_
It was a sparkling clear day to-day, with no wind, so I rode over to the
old Titchborne Ranch with my little jumper-sleigh. There I found
Percival Benson in a most pitiable condition. He had been laid up with
the grip. His place was untidy, his dishes were unwashed, and his fuel
was running short. His appearance, in fact, rather frightened me. So I
bundled him up and got him in the jumper and brought him straight home
with me. He had a chill on the way, so as soon as we got to Casa Grande
I sent him to bed, gave him hot whisky, and put my hot water bottle at
his feet. He tried to accept the whole thing as a joke, and vowed I was
jolly well cooking him. But to-night he has a high fever and I'm afraid
he's in for a serious siege of illness. I intend to send Olie over to
get some of his things and have his live stock brought over with ours.
_Sunday the Twentieth_
Percy has had three very bad nights, but seems a little better to-day.
His lung is congested, and it may be pneumonia, but I think my
mustard-plaster saved the day. He tries so hard to be cheerful, and is
so grateful for every little thing. But I wish Dinky-Dunk was here to
tell me what to do.
I could never have survived this last week without Olie. He is as
watchful and ready as a farm-collie. But I want my Dinky-Dunk! I may
have spoiled my Dinky-Dunk a little, but it's only once every century or
two that God makes a man like him. I want to be a good wife. I want to
do my share, and keep a shoulder to the wheel, if the going's got to be
heavy for the next year or two. I won't be the Dixon type. I won't--I
won't! My Duncan will need me during this next year, and it will be a
joy to help him. For I love that man, Matilda Anne,--I love him so much
that it hurts!
_Sunday the Twenty-seventh_
Christmas has come and gone. It was very lonely at Casa Grande. I prefer
not writing about it. Percy is improving, but is still rather weak. I
think he had a narrow squeak.
_Wednesday the Thirtieth_
My patient is up and about, looking like a different man. He shows the
effects of my forced feeding, though he declares I'm trying to make him
into a Strasburg goose, for the sake of the _pate de foies gras_ when I
cut him up. But he's decided to go to Santa Barbara for the winter: and
I think he's wise. So this afternoon I togged out in my furs, took the
jumper, and went kiting over to the Titchborne Ranch. Oh, what a shack!
What disorder, what untidiness, what spirit-numbing desolation! I don't
blame poor Percival Benson for clearing out for California. I got what
things he needed, however, and went kiting home again.
_Thursday the Thirty-first_
I hardly know how to begin. But it must be written or I'll suddenly go
mad and start to bite the shack walls. Last night, after Percy had
helped me turn the bread-mixer (for, whatever happens, we've at least
got to eat) I helped him pack. Among other things, he found a copy of
Housman's _Shropshire Lad_ and after running through it announced that
he'd like to read me two or three little things out of it. So I squatted
down in front of the fire, idly poking at the red coals, and he sat
beside the stove with his book, in slippers and dressing gown. And there
he was solemnly reading out loud when the door opened and in walked
Dinky-Dunk.
I say he walked in, but that isn't quite right. He stood in the open
door, staring at us, with an expression that would have done credit to
the Tragic Muse. I imagine Enoch Arden wore much the same look when he
piped the home circle after that prolonged absence of his. Then
Dinky-Dunk did a most unpardonable thing. Instead of saying "Howdy!"
like a scholar and a gentleman, he backed out of the shack and slammed
the door. When I'd caught my breath I went out through that door after
him. It was a bitterly cold night, but I did not stop to put anything
on. I was too amazed, too indignant, too swept off my feet by the
absurdity of it all. I could see Dinky-Dunk in the clear starlight,
taking the blankets off his team. He'd hurried to the shack, without
even unharnessing the horses. I could hear the wheel-tires whine on the
crisp snow, for the poor beasts were tired and restless. I went straight
to the buckboard into which Dinky-Dunk was climbing. He looked like a
cinnamon-bear in his big shaggy coat. And I couldn't see his face. But I
remembered how it had looked in the doorway. It was the color of a tan
shoe. It was too weather-beaten and burnt with the wind and sun-glare
ever to turn white, or, I suppose, it would have been the color of
paper.
"Haven't you," I demanded, "haven't you any explanation for acting like
this?" He sat in the buckboard seat, with the reins in his hands.
"I guess I've got the first right to that question," he finally said in
a stifled voice.
"Then why don't you ask it?" was my answer to him. Again he waited a
moment before speaking, as though he felt the need of weighing his
words.
"I don't need to--now!" he said, as he tightened the reins.
"Wait," I called out to him. "There are certain things I want you to
know!"
I was not going to make explanations. I would not dignify his brute-man
stupidity by such things. I scarcely know what I intended to do. As I